Sing For the Moment
by Departed
Summary: Faberry Week - Day 2. In the midst of an apocalypse, Quinn's on the receiving end of Rachel's silent treatment.


**Title: **Sing For the Moment

**Rating: **K+

**Pairing: **Quinn/Rachel

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing

**A/N: **I knooow, I'm a day late for this prompt, but better late than never, right? Anyway, my next story will probably be for college!Faberry, but yeah. This one's short. I'm not too sure about it.

* * *

They say that the pain eventually dies, just as everything else does. It chokes you, blinds you, and restrains you to the hollow, crumbling sensation deep inside your core, and then it fades. You have the ability to be happy again, like once upon a time. Even if it takes days, months, or years, the common knowledge is that time heals all wounds.

It's all a lie.

You know it is, because the world is a dreadful place. It swallows you whole until you choke again, until you can't breathe. Over and over and it becomes fairly clear that there _is _no escape. Not when this world is nothing but an endless, fiery pit intent on bringing you with it. It's like a cycle. And it doesn't _– won't_ – end. Not until the strength finally leaves you; completely and hopelessly alone.

Isn't that why you're still here, gathering your supplies with an air of determination that has yet to leave you an empty shell? Because you're not alone. Not yet anyway. Deep down you know there's still something to live for.

"They're heading north, I think," you say over your shoulder, as your fingers knead into the ground, causing lumps of dirt to build underneath your fingernails. "I think we should be safe for now."

She doesn't respond to you, and you don't really expect her to, either. It becomes a constant occurrence to blame yourself for the brunette's backhanded methods of vengeance. Last time it was the cold shoulder; small glares thrown at different angles, sharp, indifferent gestures and reactions.

This time it's the silent treatment.

You sigh, mostly because you think you deserve it, and wipe a trace of sweat from your brow with a dirt-stained hand. You imagine those wide brown eyes pinned on your back, glaring daggers into your head. It almost makes you want to smile.

"I saw my father yesterday," you trail on mindlessly. The thought of it causes your hands to shake ever so slightly. "I didn't tell you because I knew you'd probably freak. But I saw him just around the town's border and… I was right. He's one of them."

You shiver against the cool breeze, bringing the ends of your coat closer around her torso. As expected it brings no comfort. "I mean… it was kind of obvious from the start. There's no one left in Lima. But it was… it's completely different _seeing _it for yourself, you know? Someone you once knew just… dead."

Your jean-clad knees are now thigh deep in dirt, and you briefly think that maybe you'll be needing a new pair soon, but you honestly can't bring yourself to care. Your entire outfit could be covered in remnants of the undead and you wouldn't so much as blink an eyelid.

"I don't miss him," you confess softly. You admit it before you lose what little courage you have left. "How can I? I hadn't seen him since my mom filed the divorce papers, and before that, when… when he kicked me out. But the thing is – I couldn't _stand _looking at him. I wanted to kill him, or whatever it is you do with these things. I wanted to shoot him so badly. Right between the eyes. But I couldn't."

You let your breath fall between your lips in a despairing sigh. "I couldn't," you repeat. You don't even listen for a response that time.

You continue, "What you said, before, about finding your dads," and gently mold your hands into the ground once more before claiming, "I think I get it now."

There's a blade in your hand now, sparkling gently in the moonlight and you use the pointed end to carve into a nearby rock.

"It wasn't about finding out whether they're dead or not. You already know they are. But… you need to confront it. You need to see it and close it off before you can really move on. I'm sorry, Rach… I'm sorry I didn't get it before."

It's getting colder, and you shiver a little more and jolt up every time you hear something in the distance, but you know it's all in your head. Surviving an apocalypse does that to a person.

The ground feels even colder beneath your weight. You slowly begin to grow agitated at the lack of retort.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" you murmur almost bitterly, and sink further into your knees as you work your blade over the stone with careful precision. You chance a glance over your shoulder before adding, "To spill my heart out? My thoughts? The least you can do is answer me."

You see her eyes staring back at you, feeling your throat tighten over the silence that accommodates.

"I was thinking that we could get married in New York like you wanted," you say next, and your voice breaks, "It wouldn't be like how you completely envisioned it. There'd be more guests than what we had planned, and we'd have to find an officiant before anything happens. But at least we can get it over with."

You perk up your ears to listen, but are only met with silence.

"What do you think?"

Silence. You clench your eyes shut in anger, the grip on your knife tightening until you feel your hands shaking more noticeably and you're only now faintly aware of the tears cascading down your cheeks.

"Rachel?"

More silence.

"Rach?"

Nothing.

The frustration roars and coils in your stomach, causing you to stand up and drop the knife in the process. You feel hot. You feel hot and cold and just about everything in between.

"God _damn _it, Rachel!" you cry as you twirl around. "_Answer me!_"

Your anger fades, and something shifts in the atmosphere, something foul and unpleasant. And suddenly you're slammed face first into reality, where your eyes level on hers and not only are they not the vibrant brown you're expecting, but they're dull. Lifeless. Something so horrifyingly distinct grabs at your chest, wrenching it open, and you're immediately on your knees by her side.

You brush a strand of her hair from her forehead, fingers meeting cold, pale skin, and silently place them over her eyes. The resulting ache coursing through your body is clear, intensely so, and you can't but whisper, "I'm so sorry, baby," over and over and over, until they fade into heaving sobs. And you pull her close to you.

The knife lays forgotten feet away, resting by the stone that shine with a multitude of illegible carvings.

* * *

_Rachel Barbra Berry_

_1994 – 2012_

_Beloved star, daughter, friend, and fiancée._

_May her memory rest as the world falls to dust._

_I will see you in the afterlife._

* * *

I just realized that this might confuse people. Basically Rachel was already dead the whole time, whether it be from infection or an accident or whatever the case. The fact that Quinn is speaking to her as though she isn't is purely psychological. Something triggered in her mind to make her think that speaking to Rachel would give her the illusion that she really isn't dead, and that essentially negates the reality of it.


End file.
